Requiem for a Lost Boy
by tragicbeauty1991
Summary: Smee would not laugh. The loyal bosun never laughed at his captain's moments of weakness. If he'd had it his way, he wouldn't have been a pirate at all…but it was moments like this that reminded him why he'd stayed…moments when he saw the frightened child he'd once known in the eyes of the world-weary captain.


"Cap'n?"

The voice was distant, muffled…as though he were hearing it from underwater.

"Cap'n?" the voice came again, this time a little more urgent.

The gentle touch of a hand on his shoulder caught him off-guard and he flinched, arms awkwardly pulling his long legs tighter against his chest so that he could bury his face between his knees. His entire body was shaking. Badly.

"There now," Smee patted his shoulder. "It's alright, Cap'n. You're safe now."

There was the taste of blood in his mouth, and he realized he'd been biting his lower lip to keep it from trembling. He hated feeling so helpless, so _pathetic_….

"Pan and the boys are gone," Smee explained. "The crocodile too."

He wanted to ask about the rest of the crew. They had seen him come undone again, unhinged—their bold and fearless leader reduced to a heap on the deck without a single blow from his opponent's blade, paralyzed with fear by an otherwise innocent, unassuming sound. How long could this go on before a mutiny became inevitable? The men had never particularly liked him to begin with. Now, with every encounter with the crocodile, he was losing what little respect they had for him. He wanted to ask…but the words were stuck in his throat, caught behind a sob he dared not let escape.

Smee seemed to understand. "The crew's settling back down," he said without prompting. "All returned to their posts."

There were no battle wounds to tend to this time, as there had been no real battle, no swords or daggers bloodied in a fight…. It had been more of a prank than an actual attack. He could still hear the children laughing…the CREW laughing as his legs had buckled beneath him and his heart pounded and his breathing became panicked. He had managed to drag himself away from the sound and into his cabin before he'd collapsed entirely. And there he had remained, curled into the fetal position and trying desperately to maintain some sense of composure, some level of dignity.

He was usually wet after such an encounter, having either been pulled over by the crocodile or thrown over by The Boy, his clothes in tatters and sticking uncomfortably close to the skin, his hair encrusted with seawater and sand and reeking with the bilious stench of the crocodile's latest meal. But this time, they hadn't gotten that far, so it surprised him when he felt a small trickle of water down his cheek. He raised a hand—his only hand—to his mouth and pressed it hard over his lips, refusing to allow the painful, hollow ache that had risen from his chest to make a sound, willing his tears to be silent.

They did not obey.

A gasping, shuddering sob—desperate, angry, ashamed—found its way out, and with it, whatever walls he'd managed to keep up came crumbling down. The floodgates burst open.

"I…I can't…I can't do this anymore," he choked, between breaths. His voice was thick, strangled with emotion.

Smee would not laugh. The loyal bosun never laughed at his moments of weakness. Nevertheless, he despised every second of it—every hot tear that streaked down his face; every hiccuping, heaving sob; every uncontrollable quiver and crack in his voice.

The older man sat down a steaming pot of tea the captain hadn't noticed he'd been carrying before and slowly lowered himself to the floor beside where he had fallen, laying a hand on his arm.

"It ain't good form, ya know, them treatin' ya like they do," he said quietly. He licked his lips, choosing his words carefully. "Pan and the boys…they're young…they don't know no better…. Don't make it right," he added quickly. "But…but the crew…. There's no excuse for it."

The children of the island weren't the only ones who never grew up. The pirates might have all been grown men, but their crude sense of humor and tendency to bully those weaker than themselves were certainly not the traits of someone who was fully mature. Smee was the oldest of them all—too old for their raucous, drunken carousing and lewd comments about the mermaids; too old to take an interest in the skirmishes between boys and men (which both sides seemed to thoroughly enjoy, at times); too old to care what anyone thought of him and his tendency toward softness instead of violence. If he'd had it his way, he wouldn't have been a pirate at all…but it was moments like this that reminded him why he'd stayed…moments when he saw the frightened child he'd once known in the eyes of the world-weary captain. The desire for revenge had hardened him. _Life_ had hardened him from the moment he'd entered the world…but all children start out gay and innocent and heartless…and grownups are really just older children, after all.

The sobs had quieted to a soft weeping, but he remained on the floor, eyes squeezed tightly shut, as if he still clung to the childish belief that so long as he could not see anyone else, they could not bear witness to his shame. Smee coaxed him into a sitting position, propping him up against whatever furniture happened to be closest to the place he had lain…which turned out to be a bookshelf. He recognized all the titles by now—Shakespeare, mostly, along with books of poetry and history and scientific literature on plants and the stars the movements of the sea. He would have had great difficulty trying to read them, as he was not a man of letters with any formal sort of education, but the fact that he could read at all was more than most of the crew could boast. He looked at the man sitting beside him and for a moment saw the ungainly, dark haired boy who had spent his last summer before going to Eton down at the docks teaching him his letters when his father was away at sea. He had seemed almost happy then, though his eyes bore the look of someone who had experienced more suffering than any boy his age should have. He was always happiest when his father was away…. A few of the battle scars that lay hidden beneath the red velvet coat ran deeper than anyone could have guessed. But Smee knew.

They had never spoken of it then, and Smee knew better than to bring it up now…but the resemblance between the boy on the docks—white-knuckled and wearing the pallid expression of one trying to calm a rising wave of nausea—watching his father's ship come in and the man on the deck watching the crocodile draw near was far too similar to ignore. More often than not, the captain resembled his father now more than the boy he had once been—angry, merciless, cruel. But there were moments when he could still see the boy he remembered—the shy lad with a fondness for flowers and music, the brilliant child whose eyes shone with excitement when he read stories of romance and daring and adventure, the sensitive boy who had been horrified the first time he went on a fox hunt, refusing to shoot until his father had kicked and beaten the poor creature so badly that he knew it would be kinder to put the animal out of its misery. It was the first time he had taken a life. He'd returned home with blood on his shirt and a deadened look in his eyes. Smee wondered sometimes what might have happened if he had intervened sooner…

The silver gleam of the claw caught his eye. It made him nervous at times, but more often, it made him sad—both for the pain it had caused James Hook and the pain it had caused others. From the sleeve of the injured arm the captain drew forth a handkerchief and moved to wipe his eyes and nose, sniffling. He was calmer now, his breathing more regular.

Smee quietly poured him a cup of tea and pretended not to notice.

"I'll get him for this," he growled under his breath, shakily standing. "I'll kill him. He has humiliated me for the LAST time!"

Smee sighed to himself. In Hook's more vulnerable moments, he always hoped he'd get through to the man enough that one day, James might return. He shook his head. Wishful thinking, perhaps…but he could not give up hope. He had not saved the boy from his father as he should have…but perhaps he could still save the man from himself.

He held out the teacup, which the captain gingerly accepted as he took a seat at his desk. His hand was still trembling, and the cup—nearly full to the brim—spilled over. He cursed quietly, hissing as the hot liquid splashed onto his hand, then dripped to the floor.

Smee was there in an instant, pulling a rag from his pocket and getting down on his hands and knees to wipe up the mess before it had time to leave a stain. Hook had begun formulating another plan to capture the boy and was growing more excited by the minute, rattling off the details as though they had not tried variations of the same tactics a thousand times before. The bosun had learned long ago not to argue with such logic, however, and kept his thoughts to himself, half listening with what he hoped was a neutral expression as he cleaned.

"Perhaps a touch of the cat will teach him some manners," the captain was saying.

Smee winced. The "cat" or "cat o' nine" was a favorite tool among the men for torturing information out of their enemies…and the captain's favored form of punishment for the men themselves.

Hook noticed his look of discomfort and raised an eyebrow. "You disagree?"

"I…" Smee hesitated. He was treading dangerous waters.

"Or perhaps you would prefer something a bit more…unique…. Keelhauling, perhaps? Yes, that would do nicely…."

He paused, frowning. The bosun's lack of enthusiasm for his more violent exploits was not unusual, but this time, there was something else lingering in his eyes…. He looked almost…disappointed.

"Well….?" he asked, impatiently.

"Cap'n?"

"Out with it! Speak your mind, Smee."

Smee took a deep breath, wringing the rag between his hands nervously. "Cap'n…. It's just that…he's…."

"_Yes?_"

The bosun spread his hands helplessly. "He's just a boy."

For a moment, the room was silent, and Smee held his breath, waiting for the inevitable explosion. But surprisingly, it never came.

Hook sighed heavily. Had it been any other member of the crew, he would not have hesitated to rake the claw dangerously close over the man's throat and remind him of his place…. But a memory flashed before his eyes of Smee speaking the same words many years ago, pleading for another child down at the docks in London. He stared into the tea, as yet untouched, as if it somehow contained all the answers to his deepest questions. At long last, he spoke.

"The lad you met at the docks is dead, Smee," he said quietly. "Allow him to rest in peace."

The bosun looked away.

A warm sea breeze wafted through the open porthole window, carrying with it the sound of children's voices as they played along the shoreline, laughing as they ran into the surf. The captain looked up from his tea with an expression of loathing and something else which Smee thought might be just the slightest twinge of jealousy. James Hook, even in his youth, had never been quite so carefree.

He stood. All former traces of fear were gone, replaced by the cool, detached confidence of a man who has made up his mind.

"Come, Smee," he said. "We've much work to do."

"Aye, Cap'n," the bosun answered tiredly. He had come close this time—SO CLOSE—to reaching the part of the captain that still held some compassion, some human decency. Time and time again, he'd think they were getting somewhere…and then the walls would go up again. It was deeply discouraging. Perhaps the captain was right…. Perhaps he needed to let go of the child he'd held onto in his heart for so long and realize that he was gone.

But somewhere in the distance, among the crashing of the waves and the crying of the gulls and the laughing of the children, a quiet voice—a voice from the past—echoed across the seas of time. "Not yet," it whispered. "Don't give up yet. I'm still here."


End file.
